Summary: (X2 Movie-Verse) Nightcrawler wakes up in his Church after the incident in Washington D.C.

Disclaimer: I don't own Nightcrawler. If I did, I wouldn't be disclaiming him.

Absolution

I groan slightly as I move my aching body. My arm suddenly stings when I try to lift it, and I close my eyes tightly, silently praying for the pain to go away. I feel dizzy as I slowly sit up, clutching my injured arm to my bare chest. The faint smell of burning incense comforts me, and the soft flickering of candles in the room makes me feel safe . . . makes me feel protected. I'm back home, sprawled out on the damp floor under the statue of my Savior, but the lingering odor of gunpowder tells me I've been somewhere else too. But where?

Glancing down at my arm, I see dried blood covering the opening of what looks like a bullet wound. My first instinct is to find my rosary, but the pain in my arm stops me from moving. It doesn't stop my urgent need to pray though, no matter how much it hurts. What happened? What have I done? The back of my neck hurts, and I move my hand tentatively to where it burns with pain. Something isn't right. What happened to me? Panic suddenly overwhelms me, making my heart race in my chest. I try to think of something, anything, that would explain this, but the rhythmic thudding in my ears distracts me. I can't remember anything. Nothing. Did anyone else get hurt? I could never forgive myself if I hurt someone . . . He would never forgive me. My eyes glance upward to meet His, but I find I cannot hold His gaze.

I lean back against a mildew-covered pew and close my eyes again. Sleep is what I need. In the morning, things will be better, clearer. . .

-----

Sleep. In many ways my sleep is worse than being awake with the knowledge that I may be responsible for someone's death. Nightmare after nightmare plagues me, and I can't escape my fate, no matter how terrible I feel. No matter how much I repent. Maybe I am what the others think of me. Maybe I am nothing but a demon.

I awaken suddenly, panting hard, my skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. My arm still throbs with pain, and my stomach lurches forward as it all comes flooding back to me. I realize it wasn't all just a dream. His statue stares down at me, but I find no comfort in it. He is reminding me of my guilt.

I growl angrily, and with my free hand I claw at the skin on my stomach. It hurts, but strangely enough, the pain somehow makes me feel better. In a way, the pain is my salvation, my absolution. Hissing though my fangs, I begin to trace a pattern with my nail, ignoring the blood that flows freely. A symbol for every sin. . . I wonder how many the sin of murder calls for? "If I am even guilty of that sin," I quickly remind myself. I no longer care. I'll do what it takes to make it up to Him.

I can't even meet His merciful eyes this time. I'm ashamed of myself.

Verzeihen Sie mir, meinem Retter.

End.

Please read and review.